


sympathy for the devil

by lyricalprose (fairylights)



Category: Lost, Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 10:39:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairylights/pseuds/lyricalprose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Spaniard asks him <i>are you the devil?</i>, and he says <i>no.</i></p><p>(The real answer is <i>once, a long time ago.</i>).</p>
            </blockquote>





	sympathy for the devil

Nick says _yes_ , and it comes out broken and angry, his breath catching on the word as Lucifer – _the devil, really? that can’t actually be true_ – leans forward to touch his cheek, with a hand that looks like Sarah’s but isn’t.  
  
He says _yes,_ and his bedroom is filled with light, mostly white but shot through with grey as he loses control of hands, arms, feet, and legs in an instant. Relegated to hazy incoherency in the back of his own mind, it becomes difficult to maintain control even over his own thoughts – ideas blur together and sometimes fade altogether, and it feels like he’s constantly sleeping, dreaming, then waking, unable to tell exactly which is which.  
  
Though he can’t quite grasp enough control to be conscious of what exactly the devil – this thing, this _angel_ really is the _devil_ , he has found out quickly – is doing with his body, he sees enough to wish with all his heart that he hadn’t said yes.  
  
There’s justice, there’s revenge, and then there’s _evil_ , and Nick is pretty damn sure that what this thing is doing with his body is not either of the more socially acceptable options. It doesn’t use his body for most of the really dirty work, as far as he can tell, but he sees what’s going on, _feels_ what’s going to happen, and ordinarily that’d freeze his blood, but it’s not even his blood to freeze anymore. Plus, the devil’s enjoying himself so much, is so convinced that he’s in the right, that Nick can feel his blood _singing_ every time a human dies, every time they come a step closer to the end.  
  
By the time he is (they are? Lucifer is? What is this, really?) in Carthage, the old stolen shovel leaving splinters in Nick’s hands as the devil digs a grave, he’s screaming _no, no, not what I agreed to_ as loud as he can without access to his own voice, but there’s no one there to listen.  
  
Lucifer just starts whistling, keeping time with Nick’s screaming as he digs.  
  
\---  
  
Nick’s not actually sure _how_ the Winchesters do it, how they win – or if it’s even them who do it, because all he can really discern with the bit of his mind that’s left by the time something tears his body to pieces is that Lucifer is angry, confused and not at all ready to lose.  
  
But he loses, as far as Nick can tell, and then there is nothing after that until he hears a voice, clear and powerful, ask him a question: _Would you like to be redeemed? We have work for you._  
  
There’s nothing else to do, so he says yes again, and when he opens his eyes it isn’t black or white he sees but blue – deep blue sky fading into clear blue ocean, stretching out into infinity. He’s sitting on a beach and it’s warm between his toes (he wiggles them experimentally, just to see if he can, and he’s in _control_ again, he has a _body_ again), and when he turns around there’s a sea of green instead of blue, a dense jungle spilling out onto the sand.  
  
A statue, tan and huge and mostly human-shaped, rises several hundred feet over the beach, stretching higher than any building Nick ever saw in his life in Pike Creek, Delaware.  
  
He runs his fingers through the sand once, then stands and walks towards the looming shadow of the statue.  
  
\---  
  
The demon that is trapped on the island doesn't always behave like an ordinary demon, like the minions he remembers Lucifer toying with, stringing along. No, in fact, he reminds Nick of War, Lucifer's favorite, the swiftest and cruelest eliminator of man, turning people against each other (and against Nick) with whispers in the jungle, soft suggestions in the night. When people come to the island – when he brings them here – the demon immediately tries to break them apart, divides them up and scatters them across the island as they fight with one another. It comes to him in the jungle at night and laughs, says _they're all weak, weak just like you, all you humans are the same._  
  
(It must be able to read his mind, Nick thinks, because the next time he sees the demon it's wearing War's face and smirking, hatred blazing in its eyes as it says _you can't keep me here_ ).  
  
But the demon never gets everyone – there are always a few that survive, and he makes sure they're provided for. He can't – won't – take them off the island, because the demon might try to go along too, but he keeps them together, gives them advice, draws salt lines around their campsites and blesses the water in the nearby springs, the holy words dry and foreign in his mouth no matter how many times he says them.  
  
The name he gives to those lucky enough to meet him is not his own. Nobody has called him Nick or Nicholas for hundreds of years, and he’s not sure he wants anyone to.  
  
He says _my name is Jacob_ , and the name he gives belongs to a child that will die before his time, centuries from now. The name makes him think of an empty bed, a dark room, the kick of a gunshot and his son crying, blood that isn't there spilling over the edge of the crib, sticky under his bare feet as Lucifer whispers _say yes._  
  
The name makes him remember.  
  
\---  
  
Nick's been on the island for hundreds and hundreds of years when the shipwrecked Spaniard tries to kill him, because the demon has convinced him that it's the right thing to do, and asks him _are you the devil?_ He’s speechless for a moment, though he knows it doesn’t show on his face.  
  
The words that the demon has placed in this man’s mouth may suit the lie he is telling this decade, but they are not really meant for this grief-crazed Spanish man – they are meant for _him_ , and the jab slides in cold and painful between his ribs, sending a chill streaking up his spine. While the days he has spent here on the island have blurred together for centuries, an indistinct mishmash of blue sea, green jungle, clear sky, the memories of life _before_ are vivid, visceral – and the bits he can call back from possession, from Lucifer, are even more so, tinged as they are with blood and dirt and fire.  
  
The demon knows him, knows his mind, knows his past and his sins. They have shared this island for centuries, and there are no secrets between them. He remembers the weight of a shovel in his hands, digging the grave of a hundred women and children, and tells the Spaniard the he is not the devil.  
  
(not anymore).

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted in 2010, on LJ, under a different penname (theredfeather).


End file.
